Brush Strokes
by Guardian Kysra
Summary: Robin and Raven, Vicky and Jon, Family and Friends. Vicky and Jon are borrowed with Emaniahilel's permission. Installment IX: Worthy.
1. Sand Castles

**Notes:** Many thanks to Emaniahilel for introducing me to her fic "Fable" as well as Robin and Raven's fan-made progeny, Jonathon Bruce and Victoria Grayson, then letting me borrow said progeny again and again.

_**Brush Strokes**_

_I. Sand Castle_

By Kysra

Vicky is five when she first understands that – even though he teases and ignores her – Jonny loves her.

She plays in a sandbox, trying and not succeeding to build a castle with nothing but her hands. Her tongue is sticking out and strands of stray hair tickle her nose, but her eyes are focused, mouth in a serious line and brow creased. There is nothing in the world but herself and the uncooperative sand that sifts through her little fingers, stubbornly refusing to take shape despite her best efforts; and she swiftly loses track of Uncle Roy's apple red aura to growing frustration as she again attempts to pack the sand into some semblance of a foundation.

It only looks like a simple hill.

Tears begin to form in her eyes as she drags sand spotted fingers across her brow to somehow get that one strand away from the tip of her nose. Her legs are beginning to cramp from being crouched and bent for so long; but she is determined to build a castle, and Mama and Daddy have always told her that she can do anything she puts her mind to.

So, she tries again and again and again as the time ticks past and the sun begins to lower. Uncle Roy is calling for her to get her things together because Daddy will kill him if he doesn't get her and Jonny home before supper; but she doesn't want to leave until the castle is built and done even though she is no closer to finishing than she was when they first got here.

"C'mon Tori." Jonny is suddenly next to her with that authoritative look he gets when he wants to communicate that he's the eldest therefore his word is law.

Usually she would listen because Mama and Daddy have always said that she's to listen to Jonny when they are not around; but she needs to do this for some reason that her young mind can't understand yet. So she looks at him with a frown and defies him for the first time in her life.

But Jon doesn't get angry – he never does. Instead, he stills her flailing hands and urges her to standing before taking up a foam cup littering the ground and making his way to the central water fountain. Soon enough he returns and pours the water on the sand, pulls her down to kneeling with him and begins to pack the wet sand into the cup.

It takes only minutes for the turrets to be constructed, but more water must be fetched to sculpt the rest of the façade. They work in tandem, not speaking but seeming to know who is in charge of what section and why. Uncle Roy watches nearby, and she can feel the warmth of his pride and love. It is only slightly muted by the cloaking devotion of her brother.

When they are finished and the castle stands proudly – if slightly lop-sided and with not an entrance to speak of, Vicky smiles at Jonny and Jonny smiles back as he takes her hand. The sand is coarse between their dirty palms, but Vicky grasps a bit tighter.

She has only ever felt so safe with her parents.


	2. Silly Girls and Boys

**Notes** Many thanks to Emaniahilel who wrote Fable, introduced her characters - Jonathon and Victoria Grayson (the progeny of Robin and Raven), and has repeatedly given me permission to borrow those Grayson kids. THAT is trust.

If you've read Em's stuff (and why wouldn't you have?), you might notice some (read: blatant) continuity with her story _It Only Takes a Moment_.

_**Brush Strokes**_

_II. Silly Girls and Boys_

by Kysra

The first night of their first family vacation has Vicky so excited she can't sleep. Her entire body vibrates with excitement and energy so hard, she has to squeeze her knees together beneath the sheets to contain an urge to jump and skip and run. Jon lays beside her and sighs for the hundredth time in as many seconds (the lights were only turned out minutes ago, after all), and she kicks him to get his attention.

"Icky . . ." His tone is one of caution though he whispers in the dark. He is conscientious of his parents just seven steps away and wishes his baby sister knew to be the same.

She pouts in the dark and reaches out to tweak his ear only to have her hand caught and forced down before it can make even half the journey. "I can't sleep."

He sighs again, deeper this time and stretches before raising up on an elbow, squinting in her direction. "If you don't sleep, you'll be worn out tomorrow."

Sitting up now and completely oblivious to her brother's words, Vicky bounces and begins to rattle off everything she wants to accomplish tomorrow, stopping only once to take a breath, and somehow managing to take him on a verbal tour of all four of Disney's Theme Parks in a sum of five minutes - including the rides and shows she is entirely too short and young to experience.

She has just inhaled to educate him on just how many different slides and pools the water parks advertise when their mother's voice breaks through the night, making Vicky jump and twist, hands up and face schooled into a look of innocence. "Victoria, you have three seconds to lie down and be quiet."

Apparently living with their parents for the entire eight years of her life has not taught her that when Mother speaks you are meant to listen. "But Mama," she whines, "I can't sleep. I'm too excited!" Jon can do nothing but angle himself back down and sigh - again.

A sigh, very much like Jon's but colored in Mother's voice, precedes a muttered, "We should have taken Karen's advice about spiking their juice with Benadryl."

Jon cannot help but agree silently, at least then he would be able to sleep through Tori's hyperactive sleeplessness.

Their father chuckles warmly as Tori - her three seconds past - obediently shifts to place her head back on the pillow . . . "She reminds me of Gar."

. . . and pops right back up to sitting and bouncing, and Jon is nearly ready to whack her with his pillow. "OOoooohh, Daddy! Can we ride It's a Small World???!!! Can we, can we, please???"

There is a long pause before Father answers rather tentatively. "You'll have to ask your mother."

Rustling, a loud thump and a deep groan from across the room alert the children that one of their parents has exited the other bed, that the parent now out of the bed did not exit willingly (or gracefully), and that the parent in question is their father.

Vicky laughs and bounces onto her brother's legs, the event that signifies - in Jon's mind - the very last straw. When his pillow impacts with the back of The Brat's head, she finds herself face-planted into the foot end of the mattress. Mother is angry - her irritation is like a storm cloud that fills the entire hotel room - and takes a breath to reprimand him, but Father is quick and lobs one of the corner chair's decorative throw cushions across Mother's nose. It is a warning shot, but their mother reacts as if it were a full out attack, tackling Father and pummeling him repeatedly in the face with his own pillow.

Suddenly, it is a free-for-all family pillow fight that lasts for a good half-hour (neither of their parents are particularly keen on admitting defeat - ever), filling the room with notably non-sleeping noises such as shrieks and laughter, oophs and tuts. But as all things, it eventually ends in their parents' bed with Vicky draped across their mother's lap and Jon lying on his back, hanging head-first off the bed, completely exhausted and pillow-beaten. Mother and Father are still giggling softly even as they gentle Vicky's hair and straighten Jon's pajamas; and the last thing Jon hears (through the blood rushing in his ears) as he drifts to sleep is Father agreeing with Mother that next year they will definitely bring the Benadryl.


	3. A Study in Contrasts

**Notes** Many thanks to Emaniahilel for introducing me to her fic "Fable" as well as Robin and Raven's fan-made progeny, Jonathon Bruce and Victoria Grayson, then letting me borrow said progeny again and again.

Also, a thank you to Aileene for being a phenomenal photographer and who's little girl inadvertently inspired the photo described herein.

_**Brush Strokes**_

_**A Study in Contrasts**_

By Kysra

It mystifies his dorm mates and friends that there is no decoration in his room save a lone framed photo which has seen better days. It is crinkled in places, stained in others. He explains that it is several years old, first languishing disused in an album then later sustaining the abuse of his wallet. His decision to preserve it behind glass only occurred when he began college and moved away from home to discover that he misses her.

His sister is the happiest person he has ever encountered and though he has known this sort of separation anxiety before, it strikes him – intense and hard – that he is addicted to her. She is light where he is dark; laughter countering his stonewall non-expression; pure energy to his seeming soul-deep lethargy. So he smiles for her in the morning and wishes her good night before retiring, his eyes tracing the downward tilt of her head, the line of her nose, the chaotic tangle of suspended strands of hair that seem cradle and frame chin and bare shoulders. She is captured in a moment of laughter, mouth slightly open, the corners pulled up, displaying blanched teeth scraping gently across a pillowed bottom lip. Her eyes are masked by lowered lids, thick lashes splayed across blushing cheeks.

There is a softness in the moment, a tender reminder of youth and simpler times, and he chuckles to himself wryly that at nineteen, he's already dismissed himself as an old man compared to his sibling who is merely two years his junior yet seems so much younger. And yet, more than he loves, values, or honors her; he _respects_ her. She may be the happiest person he has ever encountered, but she is also the most self-controlled. Though she may laugh easily and freely, she never takes the simple joys of life for granted. Her energy is an answer to that joy for she walks through life without regret, head held high, eyes always looking up and beyond, a bounce in her step, and arms open to what may come.

His sister is soft and tender and youthful, but she is also determined and strong and experienced; and his admiration of her - the way she unknowingly exemplifies and inspires spiritual resilience, strength, and optimism – is what drives him when life seems too much, when his patience has worn thin and he is on the cusp of a breakdown. And though he has never told her so, though he probably never will, Jon understands and admits – at least to himself – that Vicky is not the better part of him as others have suggested. Rather, she is the force that pushes him to exhibit the best in himself.


	4. Learning Curve

**Notes**: Many thanks to Emaniahilel for introducing me to her fic "Fable" as well as Robin and Raven's fan-made progeny, Jonathon Bruce and Victoria Grayson, then letting me borrow said progeny again and again.

_**Brush Strokes**_

_IV. Learning Curve_

The relationship between Jonathon Grayson and Roy Harper can best be illustrated the first time Roy is made to babysit the three year old boy and his fourteen month old sister. Roy is bending over the flailing baby, doing his best to figure out which tabs stick where on the befuddling plastic, cotton, and absorbent gel contraption called a diaper and failing miserably. This does not escape the boy-child sitting next to him, and just as Roy is about to reach for the fourth diaper (having torn apart the last three in his frustrated attempts), Jonathon breaks the strained silence with a grave, diction-perfect, pointed statement. "You are doing it _wrong_."

As the years pass, the relationship is refined but the dynamic remains with Roy cast as the befuddled jester and little Jon playing omniscient antagonist. This is so even now as a ten year old Jon sits quietly upon the grass, a book raised before his intent eyes and Roy patiently drills Vicky in a proper archer's stance.

"I still don't understand why I had to come out here." Jon neither raises eyes nor head to confront the resident adult, but speaks to the pages spread before him with an enthusiasm that rivals his mother's.

Roy merely grins a little at Vicky's continued attempt to coordinate her feet and hands before throwing the boy-child a reply over his shoulder, "You're not old enough to stay by yourself."

Before the ten year old deigns to retort, his sister joins the fray without invitation. "But we stay – Oops." Her hand has slipped and the bow - rather than the arrow - flies from her grip.

"Do not bother, Tori." Jon speaks in measured tones. "He just wants me to act as alibi verifier in the event Aunt Jenny doubts his whereabouts this evening."

"But I could – Darn!" A huffing Vicky stomps to pick up the amazing leaping bow once more as Roy can merely stare at the lad reading calmly just five feet away.

Jon, sedate and stone-faced still, turns a page before responding to his sister's unfinished thought, "You would lie for him in a heartbeat and you know it."

At this, Mr. Harper feels the need to defend his (supposed dominant) position. "I do NOT need an alibi or an 'alibi verifier.' (Where do you kids pick up this stuff?) Jenny trusts me."

Even the rustling and snapping of Vicky scurrying to set up once more and the slight music of a summer breeze traveling through a distant chime cannot cover the muttered, "There's a first" that sounds from Jon's general direction.

"Hey!" Roy is now beyond mortified. He's absolutely offended.

Behind him, young Victoria is biting her lip and squirming uncomfortably as she speaks with a grudging reluctance, "Jonny has a point, Uncle Roy."

Mouth dropped open and hands dangling uselessly at his sides, the superhero cannot think of a proper comeback save for a weak, plaintive, "Traitors."

Vicky giggles a bit, knowing her uncle is more shocked than hurt and calls for his attention as she raises the bow yet again to try her luck against the target a mere twenty feet away.

"So how long have you and Aunt Jenny been dating, anyway?" Jon's voice reaches them and his tone holds no interest; therefore, Roy resolves to leave the question unanswered. _The boy will not bait me, _he thinks.

Unfortunately, the internalization does not account for Jon's wildcard in this game they play; and soon enough Vicky has turned, gear and all, towards her seemingly engrossed sibling. "It does seem longer than - Ow!" She waves her injured finger in the air before pointedly sticking it in her mouth and continuing, "Waiht, he's sihl wih Aunh Jehn-hee?"

"Indeed." Another page is turned without further expression or gesture.

Vicky lets go her finger with an audible pop! and smiles brightly at her goggly-eyed uncle. "Way to go, Uncle Roy!"

Coming back to his senses (and planning to somehow salvage his flagging dignity), Roy first tells Vicky to sight along her lead arm then moves to stand toe to knee before his young antagonist. He is only slightly insulted when the child does not look up from his book. "I have NOT had that many girlfriends!"

Jon does not miss a beat, as he has not missed one in the whole of their history. "One hundred and thirty-seven since I was conceived."

"That's about 11 per year!" Vicky fairly glows with inappropriate pride. "You DAWG!" Roy gapes at the boy-child and is only slightly comforted by the idea that his favorite spore does not know what she is encouraging as well as the fact that she did not learn such terminology from him.

"And most of them know each other." Jon adds flippantly even as another page is turned.

At this, all of Roy Harper's legendary wit and charm leave him. " . . . wha –"

But Vicky is already attached to the subject and shoots her dear, flabbergasted uncle a pitiful look. "It gets really confusing sometimes - I mean, you tell us to call them 'Aunt' but what happens after you break-up?" She shoots to punctuate her point and the arrow finds its mark, "Hah!" . . . . the suction end attaching itself to Jon's forehead.

Slowly, calmly, Jon lowers his book and detaches the kiddie weapon. "I like Aunt Jenny. She has books."

"Momma has books!"

"Aunt Jenny has more."

"Well, I liked Aunt Aileene. She played dress-up better than Aunt Kori!"

"I did not think that was possible."

"Really! And she let me play with her make-up. Momma never let's me play with hers."

"Mother does not own make-up, Tori."

"Well, she should!"

"Aunt Monica made the best cookies." Jon's eyes glaze over with the fond memory.

Vicky grins. "And Aunt Rita was teaching me to dance the tango." She shakes her hips for good measure none too gracefully.

Warming to the subject, Jon leans forward on his elbows, chin in hand. "But Aunt Abby had all those cool stories from traveling . . ."

"Oh! And remember Aunt Jessica? She always smelled nice and soft, like Momma's chamomile tea."

Jon nods while Roy continues to gape silently. "Isn't she coming to dinner tomorrow night?"

"I think so. It's gonna be so much fun!"

A rare, heartfelt smile wreaths Jon's lips as he watches Vicky bounce on her toes. "How about Aunt Mary? She was nice."

"And rich." Vicky sings off-key, complete with a little nonsensical dance. It is brief and ends with a glare thrown in Roy's direction. "But she caught Uncle Roy with Aunt Tina."

The glare is compounded by Jon's cutting grin. "And Aunt Sandy left when she found out Uncle Roy had the hots for Aunt Erica."

Vicky's eyes grew round as she sucked in a breath. "I remember that! I was there when she threw her dinner in his face!"

"And you lied for him. Hence his need for a trustworthy alibi verifier." Jon informs blithely, eyes watchful as Roy slumps to the ground in defeat.

"Ok. Ok. I get it – I need an alibi verifier!"

Jon smirks and savors victory but cannot resist getting one last dig in. "The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem."

"SUCCESS!" Vicky shouts as her arrow finds the outermost ring of the target.

But Roy is incapable of joining in her celebration. "I give up."

Little arms circle about his neck and a baby-soft cheek rests against his as Victoria rocks him as best she can. "Does that mean we can have ice cream for dinner?"

Comforted and amused, Roy pats her joined hands and cannot stop the chuckle that rumbles forth. "Whatever you want, Small Wonder."

"In that case," Jon begins, gathering his book and Vicky's bow and arrows, "I want to stay at the house next time."

Roy grins at the kid and thinks - not for the first time - that Jon is just like his mother, cute but scary. "Consider it a given, kiddo."

Further Notes: I shall be posting up two outtakes from this one on my Livejournal which is linked in my profile, so check it out Also, next up, Brush Strokes V: Caught in the Rain in which Jon is your typical BOY and Raven finds her inner child. (This one is a personal favorite and has a side helping of MUSH).


	5. Romance According to Richard and Raven

**A/N: I realize this is NOT what I promised at the end of the last installment; however, I finished this one first (originally tagged as the 20th Stroke) and got impatient with myself as I still haven't finished the original #5 (but it's getting there, I promise). **

** Brush Strokes V: Romance According to Richard and Raven **

_**By Kysra**_

Robin asks Raven to marry him on a cold night sometime before his twentieth birthday. They have been "together" for years though how many entailing romantic involvement is unknown as the change from comrades to friends to something more has been tortoise slow (though not for lack of effort on his part).

He knows she is the right person, feels it is the right time, and watches with baited breath as she visibly deliberates, her head on his shoulder and hand resting on his thigh.

When she speaks, long seconds later, he can only stare at the wall in the hopes his expression does not reveal his emotions. "No."

BS

Once the shock has worn off and he has had time to shake the anxiety that she means to leave him, Robin seeks her as she is brushing her teeth. "Why, 'no'?"

He is left watching as she watches him through the mirror, scrubbing her teeth in a thick lather. Unlike before, he is not filled with anticipation or nervousness. After all, there is nothing to lose; and Robin finds himself warmly amused with the dignity she exhibits even when spitting out a mouth full of oral rinse.

Wiping her lips with a damp cloth, she turns to regard him levelly and answers with a question of her own. "Why yes?"

He thinks getting involved with Raven may have doomed him to terminal upset and sighs, wondering if he will be able to sleep tonight.

BS

Weeks and more weeks later, he has not forgotten the way his heart had dropped at her refusal; and he decides it is no longer about being refused, it is about her reasons for refusing.

"I know nothing of marriage, Robin. My only examples were my parents-" She pauses and gives him a _look_ that clearly says _'need I say more?'_ before continuing blithely even as she moves through the kitchen in a ritual known as brewing tea, "and what I've read in books."

It surprised her initially that he is a cuddler, but it has since become something of an expectation when he hugs and holds her without warning. He smiles when she doesn't jump or stiffen or quiet. "Besides," she meets his kiss over her shoulder because he needs the assurance, "I was not a good girlfriend candidate. I am certainly not a great candidate for marriage."

She goes about making her tea as he loosens his hold though his hands remain on her hips and his chin finds rest against her crown. "It's not a presidential race, Raven; and I think evaluation of your candidacy falls under my jurisdiction."

Robin can _feel_ her frustrated huff as a spoon is stirred through the pale liquid with more speed than usual. "_Richard_, I do not **know** how to be a wife."

_If that's all . . . _"I could teach you." He realizes his mistake the second the last syllable leaves his mouth, and she sets down her cup to turn, positively glowing with a rare grin.

"_You_know how to be a wife?"

_Nevermind._

BS_  
_

Robin nearly dies ten months after the initial proposal; and considering he is currently half sedated with high powered pain medications, he is not responsible for anything he might do or say under the influence.

Raven, bless her, has weathered his strange requests and stranger comments with her customary grace until he has a lucid moment while she is changing the dressing beneath his scoured ribs.

"If we were married, you'd get all my money." He giggles, "Did you know I own an island? I dunno where it is, but it's mine." She halts in prepping the bandages at his initial words and can only stare at him with a grim expression as he continues. "You'd get that too."

Calming herself with a muttered mantra and the feel of his living skin under her fingers, she is careful as she begins to peel off the old binding. "I don't want your money or your island – wherever it is, Robin."

Vaguely, he seems hurt. "Well, why not? My money's not good enough for you?" Pouting has never been a good look for Robin. Pouting while high on Vicodin is even worse.

"It's not about the money. It's about valuing your life over monetary comforts." Her eyes are mysteriously wet, and she understands that – were he in his right mind – she would not have spoken so honestly.

Robin makes a show of contemplating that, teeth scraping along his bottom lip as she gentles a bit more of the adhesive from his skin. "Ok, well, if we got married it wouldn't be _my_ money, it would be _ours_. Then you would own an island - somewhere - too."

Closing her eyes slowly, Raven's lips become a firm line as she breathes out through her nose and unceremoniously rips the bandage off in one smooth movement. Robin, though drugged, responds with a girly scream and a string of unintelligible expletives that would make a sailor blush. "Drop it."

Pouting has never been a good look for Robin. Intimidation – however – strikes her as attractive as it is the first time she's ever seen him thus. The image is ruined when he squeaks, "Yes, ma'am."

BS

Victor and Karen get married.

At the wedding reception, Robin listens to Kori's joyful proclamation that Karen has never appeared more beautiful then leans over to whisper in Raven's ear, "You would look radiant in a wedding gown."

That night, Robin finds himself sleeping on the couch.

BS

An entire year has passed when he decides to try again. They lay together, her body – naked, warm and sweaty – tucked against his – also naked, warm and sweaty, basking in the afterglow.

"Marry me?"

"No."

"We could honeymoon in the Bahamas."

"We just spent a week in the Bahamas."

"It's different during a Honeymoon."

"How so?"

"Well," he grins into her hair and trails his fingers along her spine as she shudders. "We wouldn't actually see the sites or even leave the room."

Raven smiles a touch wickedly as she rises to straddle his waist. "Then, we've already had a Honeymoon, last week."

"Then you owe me a wedding."

She can't help it, she giggles. "I think I can find another way to pay the debt."

Somehow, he isn't upset this time at her continued refusal to agree. "Really?"

Her voice dips low and sultry as she leans down to murmur in his ear, "_Really_."

They don't leave their apartment for an entire week and a half.

BS

Though their apartment advertises ample room, they find themselves buying a house. As they mill over and sign the proper documents, he mentions that he doesn't have a will.

She looks at him quizzically before replying that she is unsure as to his meaning in telling her this new fact.

"I want you to have the house if anything . . . happens."

Raven rolls her eyes. "And I guess if we were married the property would automatically default to my sole ownership, yes?"

He has the grace to grin wryly, "Yeah."

She looks at him directly, probingly, "Richard. I believe I've been inhumanly tolerant thus far; but I begin to weary of this topic. Why are you so adamant about this?"

It is on the tip of his tongue to ask – again – why she is so adamantly _against_ it; but he surprises himself by thinking that maybe it isn't so important anymore. "Don't you want to leave the hero's life behind and just . . . settle down?"

Her brows draw together as she twists in her seat, reaching out to trace his jaw-line. "I thought that's what we have been doing. Did I misinterpret our life together thus far?"

"No, no. It's just," he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to order his thoughts, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

"And I with you."

"Then, we're in agreement. What harm would it do to have such a thing put down on paper and filed in the courthouse?"

And, just as when this first began, she answers his question with one of her own. "What harm would it do to remain as we are?"

He has no answer but reiterates, "I want you to have the house."

Raven's lips quirk up into a rare half-grin, "And your money and the island."

"What?"

"Just_make_ a will, Richard."

BS

It occurs to him one day as he is watching her putter around as they decorate the study, "What if we have children?"

The novelty glass wall clock she had been carrying suddenly falls to the floor and summarily shatters as she turns wide eyes toward him. "_What_?"

Setting down the level he had been using, Robin moves to take her hands, speaking in serious tones. "Children. Kids. Babies. If we have them, what happens? Who's name do they take? If we split up, who gets custody?"

Her eyes narrow, suspicious. "If this is about marriage again, I'll –"

"No, I'm serious. What if children enter the picture?"

Raven sighs and pulls her hands out of his. "And what makes you think I will ever reproduce?"

Robin's expression says, _I thought you were smarter than this. _"We have sex, Raven."

Her expression mirrors his. "Considering we have been having sex for years and I have yet to conceive, I find your sudden concern highly suspect."

"We've been lucky."

"That and it's possible I can't get pregnant, Robin. Therefore, this is a non-issue."

"But what if we DID get pregnant?"

She sighs heavily and looks down to contemplate the remnants of her clock. "If we somehow found ourselves expecting a child, I imagine we would raise it together." And before he can say anything in reply, she blithely adds, "And I sincerely doubt we will separate so that is a non-issue as well."

He smiles at that unexpected declaration. "Do you . . . That is, would you mind if –"

Tentatively, Raven interrupts, tripping over her words and wondering at her inability to look at him as she blushes. "I would not mind having children . . . as long as they are yours as well."

BS

When they receive an invitation to Roy's wedding, she waits for Robin to make some offhand (or not so offhand) comment about insurance benefits or how she will be able to decide how his body will be interred at death should she consent to be his wife.

But he says nothing, only brings her into his side, kisses her cheek, and tells her, "I love you."

BS

It is the fifth anniversary of their first real date, and they celebrate with a quiet dinner catered by Raven's favorite restaurant. They are ready to order dessert when their waitress coos and awes at them, asking, "How long have you two been married?"

Raven opens her mouth to answer, but Robin beats her to the punch. "We're not married." Then he smiles so sweetly at Raven, that she feels her heart skip a beat. "We don't need to be."

BS

That night, as he settles onto the couch for a moment of rest before going to bed, Robin is surprised when he feels her arms wrap around his neck from behind, her lips pressing against his cheek. "Raven?"

She is silent, releasing him then circling around the furniture to seat herself on his lap. "Were you serious tonight? About not needing to be married."

"Yes," he breathes against her neck, his arms tightening around her. "I have all that I need, right here. I just . . . I apologize for pressuring you."

Murmuring that it is okay, she lets her head fall back as he begins to nibble at her skin. "So, how does sometime in June strike you? Perhaps Bruce will allow the ceremony to be held in his garden."

He immediately freezes and leans back to look at her grinning face. "What do you mean?"

Raven wraps her arms about his neck and kisses his lips softly. "For the wedding. June? Bruce's garden?"

Staring at her for long minutes, his mind is blank until clarity gives comprehension and his face fairly glows with joy. "You'll marry me?" He must be sure, must have it verified.

She touches her forehead to his and sighs. "I wouldn't marry anyone else."

Laughter bubbles from him in loud, gut wrenching guffaws before he cups her face in his hands and smirks into her eyes. "You were going to say 'yes' all along, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Then why –"

"I wanted to make sure you knew what you were asking for. I wanted to know that you would be just as happy if I never said yes."

Grinning madly Robin stands, hoisting her up in his arms and begins to carry her to the bedroom. "So does this mean you want my money and my island?"

She laughs and kicks her feet a bit but questions, "Did you ever find out where it is?"

"Nope. Why?"

"I was thinking it might be a good place for our Honeymoon."

- The Beginning -


	6. Caught in the Rain

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Teen Titans and Many thanks to Emaniahilel for introducing me to her fic "Fable" as well as Robin and Raven's fan-made progeny, Jonathon Bruce and Victoria Grayson, then letting me borrow said progeny again and again.

Brush Strokes VI:

_Caught in the Rain_

by Kysra

It begins simply – as all complicated tales do – with a seemingly harmless missive declaring that Bruce Wayne will be honored with the annual Gotham Municipal Humanitarian Award on such-and-such a date at such-and-such an hour, that Mr. and Mrs. Grayson are invited to attend, and please R.S.V.P. before this designated time.

Raven had been skeptical when Robin insisted the children accompany them. "After all," he had wheedled, "they're reasonably well-behaved for three and five year olds." Not that either of them had had much experience with toddlers before they had become parents, but Raven trusted that Robin had done his research before making such a general statement.

Unfortunately, as with all general statements, there will be exceptions; and it is – again – simply Raven's luck that on the red-circled and starred night of the banquet, the sky (which had heretofore been exceedingly blue and clear) darkens to a slate gray before dumping weeks' worth of rain upon her neighborhood, city, and county. It is simply this rather dangerous weather situation which prompts bumper-to-bumper traffic in one section of town and slow-as-molasses movement in another despite her previous arrangements to leave work early in order to bypass such obstacles.

When Raven reaches her street, her house, an hour later than planned, she believes it is fortunate that she has included a two hour cushion contingency for such set-backs; however, as she is sedately running her bath, she realizes that – in her haste to get home – she has forgotten to retrieve the children from day-care and pre-school along the way.

Cursing lightly but calmly, she drains the near-filled tub and stumbles into the bedroom to change out of her bathrobe and don a pair of ratty shorts and one of Robin's cast-off tees.

The drive to the community nursery school is slow-going, filled with rain and a smattering of small hail; and if all goes well, she will still have an extra half-hour to spare once the children are home.

It does not matter, Raven muses as she waits in the small lobby, that people stare at her unusually less-than-kempt appearance. Nor does it particularly concern her that she has forgotten shoes. It all washes in the face of the little body that runs into her, the chubby arms that wrap around her knees and the lilting, high-pitched laugh-tinged squeal of "Mommy!"

"Hello Victoria," Raven greets with her usual coolness, a small smile touching upon her lips. The three year old bounces on her toes with arms held high, as Raven bends to lift her up.

In the car, down the streets and 'round the curbside, the tittering little girl begins a long, breathless recounting of the adventures of the day. Raven weathers the endless stream of staggering – sometimes mispronounced, oft times misused – words with warmth, grace, and genuine interest even as she calculates the time in her head against a mental checklist.

The pre-school is only two city blocks away, but there is a car accident being cleared away and the process is halted. Raven counts to ten and when that does not help, she begins counting backwards. _From 1000._

Victoria has quieted, watching what she can see of outside with a pinched little look that makes her look like a chipmunk just bitten into a rotten acorn. "Icky."

"Victoria." The response is immediate and automatic, and when Raven notices Victoria's startled expression in the rear view mirror, she is just this side of mortified that she had misunderstood her daughter so thoroughly. "I apologize. Yes, it is rather nasty today." (1)

They manage to make the usual ten minute trip in twenty-five, and when they pull up to the school, Jonathon is standing beneath the streaming awning with his usual unflappable deadpan and unusually rain-spotted uniform. With a grave, "Be right back. Don't open the door for anyone" to Victoria, Raven dashes out of the car, around the front, and across the fifteen foot porch on dirty bare feet and beneath an umbrella - all the while cursing Bruce Wayne and Gotham City administrators under her breath.

Jonathon is not bothered by the rain and tells her so as soon as the black and tan shield is over him. She does not deign to answer but aims a half-smile down at him anyway. The two hour time cushion she had planned into today's agenda is fast nearing its end. It is imperative she not get roped into a debate with her five year old son about the mechanics of catching a cold.

"JONNY!!" Victoria fairly squeals before phasing through her seatbelt to hug her brother as best she can with her little arms and the car seat between them. He pats her tiny hand with his own small one and very quietly asks after her day. The story-of-today babble begins again and this time Raven cannot help notice how much more colorful this round is than the one given solely to her, complete with new characters and a sharper commentary.

Making sure that Victoria is once more safely strapped in, Raven eases back onto the highway and breathes a little easier even knowing that time is running and she will never catch up. Traffic is slow-moving and irritation is coiling, but Raven limits the show of her impatience to a rhythmic tapping of her fingertips against the steering wheel.

When they (finally) make it home, the rain is falling harder, the sky has darkened further, and the wind seems to have strengthened to gale speed. Adding umbrellas and rain coats to her mental checklist of 'Things I Cannot Forget,' Raven hustles the children into the house, issuing orders in a voice that is meant to be heard and obeyed not questioned.

"Jonathon, take your sister into the bath and make sure she doesn't drown while washing her hair. And when you bathe, use soap. When you're done, dry yourselves, put on your underwear, and come find me in the master bedroom."

She knows that time is of the essence and begins to break down the next fifteen minutes into intervals of efficient action, completing her most basic toilette just as the children saunter into her bedroom. Victoria is flushed with heat and her hair is still dripping while Jonathon's skin still holds an obvious damp sheen.

Raven gives a mental sigh, understanding that she must work with what she is given. "Jonathon, please go dry yourself more thoroughly. Victoria, come here, and I'll dry your hair."

Because they are "reasonably well-behaved for three and five year olds," Jonathon runs out the room and down the hall to dry himself immediately while Victoria stands at attention, naked and rosy, with a smile on her face and anticipation in her eyes. There is nothing Victoria loves more than having her parents play with her hair.

The little girl chatters and sings and hums and wiggles while Raven wields the hair dryer, her intent face molded into an expression that seems fully content and slightly amused. There is something calming and warm about fixing her daughter's hair in an unmade bed and rain pounding the roof. It is a scene, she thinks, that Richard would appreciate as he has proven to be adorably wishy-washy on occasion.

Bounding footfalls precede Jonathon's return, and Raven is suddenly glad that she had entertained the forethought to lay out all clothing and accessories that morning when she is faced with her son's still-unclothed form. _Well, he certainly knows how to follow direction_. His skin fairly glows red with a mild case of brush burn. _Should have told him to dress himself._

Holding out a hand to her son, she reflects that though Jonathon isn't usually a physically affectionate child, she often feels the need for casual touch from him. Perhaps she would speak to Robin on how to approach this possible issue. Victoria on the other hand . . .

"MOMMA, up!" Without missing a beat or dropping Jonathon's little hand, Raven lifts her youngest from the mattress to settle the girl on one hip (taking care to unplug the hair dryer as she does so) and pads through the house to the children's shared bedroom. She is still in her slip, but being a superhero and mother has given her ample practice in the finer points of dressing quickly under pressure.

Jonathon is easiest so he is dressed first in suspended black trouser shorts, white button-down dress shirt and a little tie the color of her old uniform. His hair is combed and slightly gelled, his pockets checked and shoes tied.

"Did you brush your teeth?" Raven inquires absently, her brain calculating just how long it will probably take to wrestle Vicky into her dress.

Jonathon nods gravely, "Yes, Mother." She pats his head (gently, so as not to crush the slight spike of his hair) and reserves a soft smile for him. _Such an obedient son . . . . _

_The daughter, however . . . _Victoria loves being without clothes, enjoys running around in nothing but skin and feeling the air around her. It is often a fight to get her ready for school and outright war when she is clean and needs to dress for bed. Raven expects more of the same now that the girl's bath is done and her hair is tamed; and this expectation seems due when the little body previously perched upon Jonathon's bed next to her is suspiciously absent.

"Victoria Angela Grayson." Raven never raises her voice to her children, and she is proud to say she has never felt the need. Unfortunately, her already frayed nerves are pushing her to bark the name rather than issue a simple call.

Jonathon tugs her hand, and she bends to him, listening intently to the suggestion he whispers in her ear.

She smiles at him again and presses a short kiss to his forehead. "Victoria? Mommy's ready to play dress up."

The slap, slap, slap of bare feet barreling down the hall precedes a peachy blur flying back into the room and clasping about one of Raven's legs. Victoria is speaking excitedly in a barely understandable mishmash of English, French and baby talk; and because the child's very nature de mands it, Raven lifts her naked little daughter up and hugs her close. She smells of baby powder and lavender and feels warm and soft if trembling with anticipation.

Victoria adores playing dress up.

Gingerly, Raven plucks the Dress from Jonathon's ready and waiting hands after coaxing the three year old into a pair of big-girl-underwear and maneuvers tiny arms and head through the predominantly aqua material. The five tiny buttons are fastened quickly and efficiently before the satiny white ribbon at the waist is tied with precision and slight flair. Victoria twists and turns about, spreading her skirt and contemplating the spray of white snowflakes.

Lacey socks are then smoothed over pink, chubby feet (with no shortage of tickling involved) and black polished baby doll shoes are donned soon after.

Raven inspects her children one last time before ordering Jonathon to check his belt and retie his shoes then straightening the lopsided bow atop Victoria's head.

"Be good, and try to stay clean." After all, it would be entirely too much to ask that they stay neat as well.

With ten minutes to spare before it is time to leave, Raven half-runs into her bedroom and wastes no time stepping to the designer chocolate satin strapless, beaded gown Karen had chosen for her weeks ago. Foregoing jewelry, she has only to slip into a waiting pair of pumps, run a brush through her long purple hair, and grab a matching chocolate clutch to be officially ready.

The last five minutes are spent helping Victoria into her ivory coat and securing Jonathon's miniature dinner jacket about his frame. She warns them about the rain, how she will usher them into the car one at a time beneath the umbrella as soon as their father arrives. Until then, they will wait under the porch awning.

And though her children are "reasonably well-behaved," Jonathon – her first born and the more mature of the two – inexplicably lets go of his mother's hand and runs outside as soon as the door is opened.

Outside. In the rain. In the _mud_.

It is on the tip of Raven's tongue to yell out her son's name in a rare reprimand when a ball of liquid gray is lobbed past her to spatter against Victoria's previously pristine coat.

"_**Jon**__athon!" _Raven's voice is like a thurndercloud spewing lightning, but the boy-child merely runs around in circles, laughing that "Mother can't catch me!" And while he is probably correct that his mother would rather bide her time and punish him at her leisure than ruining her new dress by chasing him about, the brother has underestimated the sister's agency.

Squirming out of her mother's slack hold, Vicky resolutely tears off her confining, dirty coat and – with scrunched up face – bears down on her older sibling, tackling him into a ripe puddle.

Momentarily awestruck, the adult former superhero, can merely stand – mouth agape and eyes disbelieving – as her normally "reasonably well-behaved" children run amuck across the yard, their clothes stained with mud and rain water, their hair and skin covered in the same.

She watches them with mute fascination, an internal war brewing over the question of "What should I do?" They seem so happy – it fairly sparkles against their cheeks and falls like stardust around their feet even as they tread the soggy ground. It is a dance of push and pull, give and take as they chase and catch and attack and retreat, squealing and jumping about, racing here and turning there, weaving their little bodies in unplanned patterns and random trails.

They fall and laugh or splash and scream in surprise. Jonathon twirls his sister, and Victoria launches herself onto her brother's back. And watching them, Raven is struck by the realization that all the pain and emptiness she suffered, all the worry she expended as a teen and a Titan was worth it if it means she can stand here and survey her children – her _children_ – run free and full of life and love and _sheer joy_ without fear of reprisal or censure.

Their yard is not large but it is not small and the terrain is much the same as the other houses on their block – well manicured and professionally landscaped; but to Victoria and Jonathon it is some exotic locale and made for warfare. They hide behind trees and flower bushes to escape the onslaught of mud and dirty water even as they run across No-Man's-Land to form an offensive rush. The puddles are imaginary trenches and the driveway is somehow designated as neutral ground.

Victoria's hair is matted and gnarled with mud and grass. Jonathon's skin is sodden with the handfuls of sludge Victoria deemed to throw down his shirt – in the front and the back. Raven can see the dark scores hiding within the shells of their ears and wonders at how Victoria can walk so normally with the absorbed weight of her big-girl-pants.

The neighbors have come out in concern and are shaking their heads beneath their staid umbrellas, but Raven no longer cares that her entire afternoon plan has been destroyed or that her children will never be clean again. Instead, she smiles in amusement when Jonathon slips and drops hard upon his rear and lets out a small giggle under the soft roar of the rain when Victoria begins kicking through a series of puddles, unmindful of the water spray or that she is damaging Momma's violet bed.

Jonathon suddenly decides the experience of rain and muck would feel much better unshod and seats himself and his sister down to pull off socks and shoes and throw them toward the porch. Unfortunately, they are young and their aim is atrocious and soon enough the skirt of Raven's dress is splattered with the wet, slimy mess.

Jonathon realizes the mistake instantly and crawls to kneel at his mother's feet. He cannot look at her (for Mother does not like to see them pout) as he issues a million apologies and offers to clean it himself with shoe polish. Raven merely grins down at his bowed head and hugs Victoria close to her side where the little girl has glued herself when she too realized they have dirtied Momma's pretty dress.

"It's fine, Jonathon . . . But if you would truly like to make it better, I have a little request."

Jonathon looks up with his wide blue-violet eyes and tugs on her skirt even as she bends to lift him up into her arms. "What is it Mother?"

"May I play with you two?" She squishes him, letting a stream of muddy water slide over her arms even as his cold and grimy little face finds her neck and shoulder in a returned hug.

"Of course you can play, Momma!" Victoria giggles before running back into the yard and under the rain; but Jonathon holds on just a little longer, his smile serene and wholly Raven's. They walk out together, clearing the awning just before a handful of mud flies from Victoria's tiny hand to find the supporting arm beneath Jonathon's hips.

"Uh oh." Victoria grins before edging slowly away to the edge of their yard.

And Raven cannot help but laugh aloud - completely uncaring how she must look at that moment, dressed to the nines and traipsing through the rainy disaster of her yard with her two bedraggled tots - as she sets her son down to give chase after her exuberant daughter.

- BS -

Robin is acutely aware of the time and forms a mental map of town and the distance between home and Gotham Municipal Civic Center, calculating the most efficient route even as he maneuvers through the last few miles of traffic to get to his house.

He and Raven always have contingency plans ready when they know time will crunch before some extraneous event, and it was this shared need to always be prepared which urged him to take his tux, hair gel, and shaving kit with him to work that morning.

Garbed in his formal wear, smelling like sin (if he did say so himself), and mere minutes from his house, he quickly dials Raven's cell phone to warn her of his progress just in case the children have decided to mob her. It is a rare occurrence, but it does happen on occasion.

One ring, two rings, three rings. Voice mail picks up and he leaves a brief message. The rain is falling somewhat slower now, and he can guess with some accuracy that she is probably standing outside with the children, congratulating herself on managing to get everyone ready with time to spare. He smiles gently at the thought, the expression becoming more defined as he catches sight of his house.

There are neighbors outside, watching some spectacle with half-horrified, half-amused looks; and it is not long before he is educated as to the reason.

Raven sits like a queen – tall and proper - in a large puddle . . . and her new gown while Vicky smears mud in violet hair already streaked with liquid gray and Jon splashes about them, jumping into succeeding puddles; but what has him enthralled as he pulls into the driveway is the shining look of unadulterated joy on his wife's face and the screaming laughter issuing from her usually taciturn lips.

"DADDY!" Vicky bounds to the edge of the yard as he exits the car with a ready umbrella and even more ready smile.

"Hello Princess. Let me guess – you saw it was raining and couldn't help wanting to make mud pies with Mommy."

Vicky's eyes grow round and wide as her mouth forms a little 'o' before she turns her soaked head with tussled, tangled hair flying and yells, "Momma, can we make mud pies?!"

Raven chuckles even as she cuddles their son into her lap, her bare shoulders streaked with rain water and dirt. "Whatever you want, Baby."

Her cheeks are flushed, he notices but knows it is not from the slight chill in the air. Vicky stands at attention, staring up at him with a pinched look on her face that is usually the first sign that she has begun to formulate an idea that her parents will not like.

"What are you thinking, Princess Vicky?"

Raven's voice breaks in before the daughter can form a reply. "She's thinking you're entirely too clean."

It isn't common, this free playfulness glowing from her eyes and leaping from her tongue, and he intends to live it to the fullest. Grinning and making a mental note to call Bruce later to apologize for their collective absence, he knows the look he levels at her is smoldering with subtle promise. "Well, then, what can we do about this?"

She smiles wide and there is an answering smoky passion coloring her eyes. "Oh, I think I have an idea." She beckons Victoria to her side, conspiring with the children for a short moment then and nodding when Jonathon questions. The children then stand and turn to him, a tiny army standing at attention as their commander watches and orders. "Now."

And he is suddenly ambushed by two tiny savages who attach themselves to his legs and pull him out into the rain as the game begins again.

- BS -

Later, when the children are tucked in – squeaky clean and wrapped in spotless pajamas – Raven sits with her shower damp hair and steam flushed skin, a heated cup of tea in her hand and a beaming smile plastered across her lips. There is an endless twinkle in her eye, a subtle gentling of her gestures and movements. It is elemental and fluid, at once extraordinarily unique and natural.

The look catches Robin's eye, not for the first time that evening, and he can't help but vocalize the shared feeling. "I've never thanked you for them, have I?"

Raven gazes up at him as he settles himself next to her, taking her cup and shifting so that she is nestled against his side. "Thank me?"

"Yes. For the kids, for giving them to me." _To us,_ he tacks on mentally, too shy to speak it aloud.

But Raven's smile only grows and brightens till it is near blinding. "Actually, I think you have it backwards. I should be thanking you for giving them to me."

His fingers sift through her newly washed hair, mouth curling upward as he remembers that he had to unclog the shower drain three times before they both managed to clean themselves enough to meet their individual high standards of hygiene. "But you did all the work." Between their two children, Raven has clocked in 74 hours of labor.

She giggles and kisses him lightly on the mouth. "You had to get me into bed first." And between the two of them, Robin has clocked in 3 years, 4 months, 2 weeks and 1 day in pursuit of their current relationship.

He grins, but says nothing, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the feeling of his family's nearness.

"In other words, " Raven continues with a slight tilt of her head, "thank you for our children, husband."

The title makes him shiver as he realizes she means to be serious not coy. The realization is reinforced when unshed tears gleam with firelight, but the smile remains, as full and fluent as when he found her sitting in a mud puddle, entertaining their babies. "And thank you for our children, wife. Now . . . what brought this on?" His fingers find her cheeks, smearing the escaping moisture with the pads of his thumbs.

She merely shakes her head and grins up into his eyes, folding herself more deeply into his body and laying her cheek against his chest. "I just realized . . . I never knew what it meant to be young until I had them to show me."

**Notes:** (1) When Victoria says "Icky" she is referring to the weather. However, Raven takes it as a repetition of Jon's nickname for Vicky, hence the correction of her proper name.


	7. Playdate

**Notes:** As always, many thanks to Emaniahilel for introducing me to her fic "Fable" as well as Robin and Raven's fan-made progeny, Jonathon Bruce and Victoria Grayson, then letting me borrow said progeny again and again.

And FURTHER thanks to Em for inadvertently writing a portion of this chapter

_**Brush Strokes VII:**_

Playdate

by Kysra and Emaniahilel

_Wednesday:_

In the bowels of Wayne Manor, two men are discussing a matter of great importance that has nothing whatsoever to do with saving the city/country/world, superheroes, or the great responsibility that comes with wearing a batsuit and mask.

"If they are such devils, Master Bruce, I fail to understand why you have invited them over for the weekend." The poised and polished old butler asks with a look that is altogether droll and just this side of patronizing.

Distracting himself with readouts crawling across the 30 feet by 10 feet high definition plasma screen installed for the central database (which just happened to be clandestinely hooked into the JLA's central database), Bruce tries not to smile and fails miserably. After all, he thinks, his grandchildren might be denizens of mischief when the manor is at their disposal but they are endlessly amusing as well. "I'm a glutton for punishment."

Alfred scoffs before taking the stairs to the main house, but even that little bit of feigned displeasure cannot mask the slight spring in his step.

_Friday:_

Robin can barely believe his eyes but Raven shortly confirms that yes, that is Bruce Wayne playing an impromptu game of 'Tickle Monster' with their children. It is a source of endless wonder and humor that the staid and stoic man became a grown-up child when Jon and Vicky were in his presence.

He had once talked it over with Raven – how Bruce had never been that way with _him_, and his wife had simply given him a calculating look before blithely replying that the children have always known their grand-father for what he is.

And as he watches the older man, flushed and slightly mussed (as mussed as Bruce would ever allow himself to get with witnesses at the ready) hoist Vicky to a hip with one arm and ruffle Jon's hair with the other, Robin cannot help but understand. To the world, the Batman is at once lauded, respected, and feared. To Jon and Vicky, the Batman is nothing but a shadow of the man they know as their beloved grand-father.

Raven is giving Alfred a three page list of contact numbers in case of emergency because she believes in being prepared, and though she does not like to admit it, she worries when the children are out of her sight for any length of time. Robin thinks that this will be a difficult weekend, as it will be the first time she is parted from the children overnight.

Sensing that if they do not leave soon, Raven will decide to pack the children back into the car and take them back home (effectively ruining his plans for the night), Robin kisses Vicky goodbye and lifts Jon into a bear hug that has the boy giggling and squirming until he is set back on the ground. Then, with an imperious warning to "Be good and listen to your grand-father and Alfred," he collects his wife – who has also spread hugs and kisses – and leaves his progeny in his foster father's care.

"Do you think Bruce will survive?" Raven is looking straight ahead, but Robin doesn't miss the tiny glint of mischief in her eye.

He smirks, "Odds are 3 to 1 that he has finally met his match, and then some."

_Saturday:_

Bruce normally rises at 4:30 am to train and exercise. He holds the fervent belief that rest for the sake of rest is overrated and has lived on less than 3 hours of sleep everyday since he first donned the cowl. There is simply too much to do and not enough hours in the day, and because the Earth cannot stop spinning for one person, he has elected to accommodate the many hats he has chosen to wear by cutting into sleep.

Alfred, meanwhile, wakes at dawn without prodding and has breakfast on the table by 6:30 – sometimes 7, depending on the dish du jour, the exact time Bruce completes his morning regimen. Their schedule is a sturdy, well-oiled machine that has not been altered since its inception.

Until now.

"Grand-pappy!!" Victoria, 6 years old and spritely, is a flour covered ball of energy as she flings herself into him, dusting his navy Armani suit and smearing his face with raw egg yolk when he bent to accept her greeting kiss.

Sighing and accepting that 1. Vicktoria will never call him the more dignified title of "Grand-father" no matter how many times he corrects her and 2. he will have to change, regardless of the time, he wonders if it is normal for little girls to be up so early on the weekend when his grandson stumbles into the dining room. The boy lacks the sister's obnoxious bounce but it clean and flushed with the lingering sleep that has his hair alternately clinging close to his scalp or standing on end and one leg of his pajamas rolled up over his knee.

"G'morning." Jonathon says but his tone suggests that he would have been much happier to be still abed. Bruce only has to look at Victoria's wicked grin to have some idea as to why the older child is awake so early.

"Did you two sleep well?" Bruce asks just as Alfred enters from the adjoining kitchen with a cart laden down with pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and pitchers of milk and orange juice. The man is covered in flour, egg, and bits of raw meat. Victoria giggles when he ruffles her hair, sending up a small cloud of white powder.

Bruce merely bows his head to hid his grin.

However, Jonathon is unaffected. "You have soft pillows."

"I made the pancakes! Have some, Grand-pappy!" The girl, standing on a towel covered chair (courtesy of Alfred's quick thinking), grabs a handful of the aforementioned pancakes and throws it toward his plate . . . though most of it ends up on his lap and on the floor.

Victoria has the grace to look a touch guilty but more crestfallen. "Sorry, Grand-pappy."

Jonathon shoots his sister a pointed glare. "Icky, Father said to behave. That means sit down, be quiet, and don't make a mess."

The girl pouts sullenly but sits obediently and eats her breakfast as Alfred fills her plate.

Bruce looks down at the fallen pancakes and silently thanks his lucky stars that Victoria had such a fit of enthusiasm. The flat cakes were hard as rock and just this side of burned. Looking up at the children again, he is fully aware of the affectionate half-smile ruining the imperious expression he had been trying to project. "Victoria, you will help Alfred clean the mess you made."

Her voice is small and muffled when she responds, "Yes, Grand-pappy."

"OW!" Jonathon is rarely given to fits, but both Alfred and Bruce calm when they see the acid sneer the boy shoots at his sister who is humming happily to a crisp piece of bacon she has ready to finish the work of breakfast art she has been arranging on her plate. "Fine. I'll help too. (Even though I didn't _do_ anything)."

Chuckling at that last utterance, Bruce wipes his mouth and excuses himself from the table. There are a few business things he must take care of this morning, and he wants to have them completed as soon as possible.

When he passes Victoria, he bends to press a kiss to her crown, and he is just at the door when . . .

"Grand-pappy?" Victoria is now on her knees, watching him from over the back of her chair.

"Call me 'Grand-father,' Victoria."

"Ok," she says but doesn't correct herself. "Grand-pappy, can we play Hide-and-Seek?"

He thinks for a moment, tracking mentally through the errands he must run and how long it will take to get back home. "How about after lunch?"

She squeals and jumps to the ground to hug him once more, rubbing more flour onto his suit, before bounding in the opposite direction to the kitchen.

"Get changed, Master Bruce," Alfred grins, his old face crinkling with the expression. "I shall keep the children entertained in your absence."

Jonathon shakes his head silently at the old butler. "You have no idea what you're getting into."

At that, Bruce bursts out laughing.

- BS -

Vicky is 'It' and has been looking for Grand-pappy's hiding place for what feels like ten minutes (but is actually barely five); and she is becoming extremely bored. Unfortunately, Grand-pappy has decreed that using her 'special abilities' is not fair, and Jonny has opted not to play.

Because she is just this side of impatient, the six year old whizzes through the hallowed halls with nimble bounds. Her entire focus is on finding Grand-pappy to gift him with one of her signature glomps when Alfred blurs on the edge of her vision as she runs past.

And where Alfred is, Grand-pappy Bruce is sure to be close by.

She skids around a corner and stumbles to a stop, finding herself in front of Grand-pappy's study and has an impromptu debate with herself. Grand-pappy has always said that his study is off-limits and they are not to enter under any circumstance. But they are playing a game, and as she is the seeker, she should be able to seek unfettered, right? However, Mommy always says that she should listen to her elders and respect boundaries.

Vicky deflates dramatically then seems to regain her spirit and takes a step towards the beckoning door.

"Ahem." Alfred clears his throat loudly in an exaggerated attempt to get her attention. He's still rather tickled that the little girl had decided to play 'butler' in the hours between Master Bruce's egress and return, following Alfred around in an extended game of Follow-the-Leader. She even greeted Master Bruce with a stately bow, a napkin draped over her arm, and a decidedly snotty, "Welcome Home, Master Grand-pappy."

For a moment, Alfred had thought Bruce would drop with a heart attack, he had turned positively red while fighting to contain his mirth.

Vicky turns to him with wide, innocent eyes and a pointed finger to her lips. Alfred smirks then walks over to knock upon the door. There is no answer and Vicky looks up to the wizened old man with confusion. He nods toward the door slightly and she brightens, bursting through the door without regard for any inhabitants therein.

"Grand-pappy?" She looks around with a pinched look on her face when she doesn't find what she's looking for. Turning her head, she gazes back at Alfred who nods again, toward the desk.

It is then that Vicky thinks that Grand-pappy only meant her people-finding ability wouldn't be fair, so she can use other abilities, right?

Leaving the floor, she levitates herself up high until she can see her grand-father cowering behind the desk.

"FOUND YOU GRAND-PAPPY!!" The little girl crows before lowering herself back to the floor, running around the desk, and bowling the man over with a super-sized Vicky-glomp.

Bruce sighs but cuddles the girl close. "Victoria, what have I told you about using your 'special abilities' inside the house? **Any** of them."

Oops.

"Sorry, Grand-pappy."

"It's all right, Victoria. And call me 'Grand-father.'"

"Okay, Grand-pappy."

He just grins and pats her head as Alfred announces that he is going to make dinner. Vicky immediately yells that she'll help, running off and leaving Bruce to his work – a prospect that doesn't seem quite so important anymore.

He soon leaves his office to help prepare dinner as well, deciding to pick up Jonathon (who had holed himself up in the house library) along the way.

- BS-

In the safety of the library, Bruce sits with a groan and a silent vow never to allow the children in the kitchen again. Victoria is too rambunctious and – quite unpredictably – Jonathon sometimes exhibits a wicked brand of mischief the likes he's never seen before. The boy's propensity for scheming while covering his tracks inspires Bruce to pray that his grandson will use his power for good instead of evil.

Everything had started out so well, so _orderly_, then Jonathon had looked at Victoria's clean frock and the kerchiefed hair and inexplicably dipped his hand into the spinach dip before raking his fingers through his little sister's tidy pony tail.

Victoria had screeched – but Bruce still believed it was a laughing sort of screech – loudly, hopping down from the stool Alfred had furnished her with then chased after her brother, arms dripping with strawberry syrup from their half-prepared dessert.

The chase lasted for over an hour, the children relentless and tireless while he and Alfred simply tried to keep up (when they weren't – embarrassedly – slipping on fallen syrup). That adventure had spanned nearly the entire house and ended in the dining room when Jonathon – busy taunting his sister while skipping mockingly before her – smacked into the edge of the table and as he fell back, his hand grabbed the pristine white table cloth, pulling it over himself and Victoria both in a tangle of now-stained ivory.

Bruce had caught up moments later, standing over their struggling and bound bodies with arms crossed over his chest and his features schooled into an imperious expression.

Victoria had the grace to look a little ruffled and deeply apologetic, though the exaggerated pout led him to believe she may not have been so sincere. Jonathon had simply stared him down in challenge, and he couldn't help but smirk back.

_The kid has backbone. Just like his dad._

And while Bruce does appreciate Jonathon's cheek, he does not appreciate the trashing of his clean house. Therefore, as punishment, he had ordered Victoria and Jonathon to clean every room they had managed to destroy with Alfred acting as supervisor and absolutely forbidden to lift a helping finger.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Bruce glances at the grand-father clock standing at attention, noting the time. It was nearly 9 o'clock. The two had been cleaning for four hours.

_Maybe I should give them a break and finish up for them tomorrow . . . _ But no sooner does the thought strike than the door to the library opens and Jonathon shuffles in, looking small and contrite.

The boy pauses before Bruce, staring straight ahead, back stiff and unyielding. "I apologize for my actions this evening, Grand-father."

And it is then, at the sound of Jonathon's flat apology that Bruce realizes he has never seen his grand-son so lively before the unfortunate incident hours ago. He smiles gently and gathers the child to him. "Next time you want to make a mess, do it outside. Deal?"

Jonathon grins and hugs him back. "Deal."

Finally, when they are clean and coaxed into bed, Bruce tucks Jonathon in first, and no sooner is a "Good night" spoken than the boy is snoring and dead to the world. It reminds him so much of how Robin was as a child that he chuckles softly before shuffling over to give Victoria the same treatment.

Unlike her brother, the little girl is awake and doing a strange dance in her bed. Bruce shushes her softly, and pulls the covers to her chin, effectively trapping her still.

"Grand-pappy?"

"Grand-**father**, Victoria Angela." He is so tired, and she is so stubborn.

"Okay." She smiles winningly.

"Thank you." Not that he thinks she actually means it.

"Grand-pappy?"

Bruce sighs, admitting defeat for the moment. "Yes, Victoria."

"C'n you teach Daddy how to cheat at Hide-and-Seek?"

_Cheat?_ Well, he had known that Alfred was just outside the door, and known equally as well that the other man would tell Victoria where he was hiding. He supposed that counted as cheating (particularly since he had wanted the game to end as expeditiously as possible). Still . . . "You shouldn't ever cheat, honey."

Her face scrunches up as if she had just tasted something sour. "But you did today."

"**Alfred** helped you cheat."

"But you let him. I won!"

"Yes, you did."

"Grand-pappy?"

"Yes, love."

"Will I grow as tall as you?"

"We'll have to wait and see."

"Oh."

She closes her eyes as he ruffles her hair, and he hopes that she will fall into whatever lollipop dreams she's destined for tonight soon.

"Grand-pappy?" Her dark near-violet eyes are big, round, curious, and alert.

Bruce touches the tip of her nose with one finger, his mouth a straight line of seriousness. "Victoria, one more question and then you'd better sleep."

A sharp salute. "Yes, sir."

"Go ahead."

"Why do you and Mommy call me 'Victoria' when Daddy calls me 'Princess' and Jonny calls me 'Tori'?"

"Victoria is your true name. The others are just nicknames."

"Do you and Mommy not like nicknames?"

"No. We don't."

"Okay." Again, she closes her eyes, and this time Bruce rises from his seat at her bedside to shut off the light.

"Grand-pappy?" Her voice is thin and riddled with sleep, and though he is tired and anxious to see his own bed, he lets out a heavy, heavy sigh and answers,

"What is it, grand-daughter?"

A sleepy giggle brightens the near-dark. "Love you, Grand-pappy."

Smiling, he bends to press a kiss to her forehead. "I love you too."

"G'night . . . "

His hand traces the outline of her face as her breathing evens out and her mouth falls slack. "Sweet dreams, angel."

_Sunday:_

As he eats a slab of toast with a bit of cream cheese spread over the top, Bruce mutters, "Criminal masterminds . . . villains . . . monsters . . couldn't break me . . . **Three** days with 8 and 6 year olds . . ." . . . Of course, Jonathon's mastermind of mischief is mostly to blame. He suddenly grins at his half-eaten toast though it is notably sharp, pointed, and remarkably devoid of humor.

Once Victoria and Jonathon had been safely tucked in and asleep, he had made to walk through the manor to inspect their cleaning efforts only to find that they had only cleaned one single room – the least dirty of the dozen. However, instead of waking them or waiting till morning to exact further punishment, Bruce had opted to finish cleaning the mess himself – an undertaking that had seen him working well into the waxing hours of morning.

The children are seated and partaking of breakfast as well – Victoria to his left and Jonathon to his right, the both of them on their best behavior, looking slightly guilty and completely shocked.

"Icky," Jonathon suddenly breathes, serious and somewhat accusing. "You did it . . . you killed Grand-father."

Bruce nearly chokes on his toast, but decides to listen rather than correct.

Victoria turns her bright violet eyes toward her brother, biting her lower lip worriedly even as chocolate coats and drips from her fingers and cheeks. "What?"

"He's _munching_!" Jonathon's eyes are wide and shocked and just this side of convincingly innocent.

Victoria swings her head this way and that, studying Bruce's working jaws in one moment then giving the boy a measuring look the next. "Grand-pappy?"

Playing along, Bruce schools his face into a tired non-expression, chomping his toast all the harder. "Hhhn."

Jumping down from her chair, his little grand-daughter climbs into his lap then grabs his face with her tiny, grimy hands before yelling in his face, "Are you in there Grand-pappy??"

"Victoria Angela, you know better than to yell." Raven's voice reaches them from the entrance hall and soon enough she appears, as crisp and calm as ever.

Robin isn't far behind, trailing Alfred into the dining room and surveying the situation with an attentive eye. "Good morning, kids. How was your weekend with grand-father?"

Victoria, whose hands remain stuck to Bruce's face, bounces in her grand-father's lap with a smile that could light up Gotham City for weeks. "It was so much fun, Daddy! I cooked with Uncle Alfred and Grand-pappy let me cheat at Hide-and-Seek (but really, he wasn't hiding in a good place!) and –"

"Tori killed Grand-father." Jonathon's succinct voice carries over his sister's babbling ramble.

Robin's eyes widen before shifting to study his foster father more closely while Victoira issues a loud and indignant, "I DID NOT!" She pounces on her unsuspecting brother, and suddenly the dining room is in pandemonium.

The tussle that ensues sees hair pulled and uncoordinated slapping, syrup and butter dribbled over clothes and skin and rolling about on the new carpet. Bruce is just getting up to separate them forcefully and Robin is close enough to pry them apart when Raven blocks their rolling around with a well placed foot and very quietly, casually reminds them that there is a trip to Disney in their future and that trip can certainly be cancelled should they continue with such immature behavior.

The children immediately push away from each other, apologize in tandem, hug, and return to their breakfast obediently.

Bruce stares at Raven silently for a moment before giving his toast one last munch, the admiration he has always had for the woman his son married bubbling to the surface. "How do you do that?"

Raven smirks, grabbing a napkin and approaching him to wipe the syrup from his cheeks as if he were a child. "I learned from watching you."

Robin grins a little at the older man at that. "So, next weekend . . . Want them over again?"

It is on the tip of Bruce's tongue to give a distinct and heart-felt negative – not because he is worn out and demoralized but because he doesn't think his house can handle another beating so soon. However, what comes out of his mouth is, "I would be happy to spend more time with them."

Alfred's corresponding cough is tiny and subtle (but – to Bruce – obvious) beneath the penetrating screeching telling Victoria's excitement. He shoots the older man a sidelong glance and a wink. He is, indeed, a glutton for punishment as long as his grand-children are the ones to mete it out.

**More Author's Notes: **Stay tuned! A new Brush Stroke will be up for Father's Day XD


	8. Father's Day

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Teen Titans and I'm only borrowing Jonathon Grayson with Emaniahilel's express permission and blessing.

Brush Strokes VIII

**Father's Day**

By Kysra

The grounds are well-kempt and peaceful, birds singing down from the trees and the titter of a squirrel or two. It is ironically full of life despite the rows of stark white tombstones neatly lining the hilly slope.

His parents are near the crest and though he hasn't visited since Jon's birth almost a year ago, he feels welcomed with the sunlight shining down and the cool cloud-shadow falling over them.

Robin smiles slightly as he kneels to brush particles of dirt from the top and face of his parents' grave marker, eyes tracing the memorized words of their epithet, remembering a time when this didn't feel quite so casual – a time when he hadn't accepted the time and manner of their deaths.

Jon hiccups softly in Raven's arms, a step behind though he somehow feels the warm embrace of comfort radiating from her. This was her idea, though – traditionally - this day has been spent with Bruce the last ten years.

"This was a good idea." Robin says quietly, standing to turn and face his wife and child with a look of utter contentment. Raven doesn't smile back with her mouth but there is a warm light in her eyes that does it for her.

"I'm afraid I didn't suggest it for your sake. My motives were a little more selfish." Blithely, she hands their sleeping son to him and kneels to trace the names of his parents' with her fingers in much the same way he had with his eyes, gingerly and slow – reverent.

He watches with no small amount of bemusement, taking in her words and contemplating them as his body instinctively weaves and sways for the tot resting against his shoulder.

When she is done and standing once more, he notices the glistening wetness in her eyes and asks, "Why did you want to come here, if not for me?"

She gives a shaky little laugh, and he reflects that she is never remotely emotional save for special occasions. "I had to tell him . . . them something."

And she is never remotely secretive save for special occasions. "And it had to be on Father's Day?"

They begin walking down the hill, and she wipes at her cheeks, nodding silently. "I messed up the first time around because I didn't fully understand the significance of it." She grants him a small, barely discernible smile as she holds out her hands to take Jon. "I wanted this time to be special for all of us."

Now, he is thoroughly confused. "I'm totally lost, Raven."

"I wanted him . . . them to be the first to know since last time we didn't think to tell them."

"They're dead, Rae."

This time, her smile is very much obvious and wet and he wonders how it took him so long to fall in love with her. "They're very much alive and well, Robin. They want you to know how proud they are, of both of us . . . and happy to have Jonathon to watch over."

He feels a shiver go through him at her words, but it isn't unpleasant. It never ceases to amaze him, the power that Raven exerts and controls; and he never tires of seeing the happiness in her face, when she is able to use it in such a positive way.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, he chokes out his own tearful, 'Thank you' before staunchly fighting the urge to cry and gaining control again. "What did you need to tell them that was so important?"

Jon lets out a tiny, painfully adorable sneeze then, and Robin warms to the sight of Raven turning slightly to kiss the boy's forehead, her body cradling him a little closer to ward off the non-existent chill.

"I wanted your father to know that I was sorry that I didn't think to tell them sooner of Jonathon's impending birth." It was something he had felt slightly guilty about as well. He had only suggested visiting his parents' graves to share the news after Jon had already arrived. "And I wanted to wish him a Happy Father's Day for all the times I didn't think to."

She pauses to lay Jon into his car seat and secure the straps to her satisfaction. Robin watches her movements with a bone-deep fondness. Raven had not learned of Mother's and Father's days until he had asked her to accompany him to Father's Day brunch with Bruce well after they had been dating for awhile; and though Raven had never shown much affinity for Earth holidays whatever their purpose or origin, and though he could understand her fascination with Mother's Day, he would never understand the fervent way she went about celebrating Father's Day with him.

"I'm sure – if what they told you is any indication – that he understands, Rae."

Raven nods at him with a strange look before walking to the passenger side of their vehicle. When they are settled and on their way to Gotham, he asks again. "You never told me what news you wanted to share."

"I'm pregnant again. It's a girl."

He very nearly swerves off the road and into a tree, overwhelmed as he is by a strong sense of déjà vu. "A girl?"

Her hand rests on his at the stick shift, and he can feel her smile in the simple touch. "Happy Father's Day, Richard."

**Author's Notes: **This is a companion piece to one of Em's lj-only fics which can be found here:

emsscraps./58188.html#cutid1

It is also part of the collection we are collectively calling the Fableverse which stemmed off from Emaniahilel's story Fable:

/s/3171388/1/Fable


	9. Worthy

_**Brush Strokes**_

_**VII. Worthy**_

_**by Kysra**_

_Dedicated to Emaniahilel, my soul sister (and co-brain), and Matthew, the best birthday present an older sister could ask for._

It is a secret; but if Vicky is ever asked, she will say, "It was a beautiful, sunny day with clear, blue skies and birds singing to the melody of leaves rustling in the wind." That is, of course, a lie; and if ever asked, Jon will scoff and retort with the truth, "It was pouring rain, the sky was black, and the only thing singing was the hurricane strength winds."

***

It all begins with a note, scribbled in a tight, messy script that is at once masculine and childish. The note sits conspicuously on her desk, facing up and out for all the world to see, and she takes it up with a certain glee that only a ten year old girl learning her place in the world can. Her name is plainly written in block letters that she recognizes, but the message itself is in a combination of print and cursive that underlies the garbled meaning of the words. Eventually, she understands by sheer force of will, and she thinks - with absolute certainty - that her heart will never heal and she will be alone forever.

Meanwhile, Jon is snoozing in class, convinced that he already knows the subject material and, therefore, there is no need to pay attention. The sound of the classroom door opens to reveal Lyla Manning, a girl from Vicky's class (and a member of his own personal fan-club). He watches with one eye closed as she hands his biology teacher a yellow slip of paper.

Mr. Willis is a balding, youngish man with kind tawny eyes and a bum leg, and Jon rather likes that the man tends to test comprehension rather than simple recall. Soon, the teacher's attention is turned on him, and he sits up straighter under the scrutiny. "You've been summoned to the principal's office, Mr. Grayson."

It's not a common occurrence, but Jon isn't panicked as to what this could mean. He's been aware of the unsettled thread of feeling straining to chafe him. Vicky has never been subtle when she is upset; and when he gets there he only has a moment to allow himself a fraction of irritation before she launches herself into his arms and cries.

Vicky doesn't cry often. She's always too busy smiling, laughing, or (gods help him) rambling, and she never cries without reason; so he cradles her head where it is nestled against the side of his neck, and gently rocks her from side to side, saying nothing and releasing any tension from his body and mind.

She's shaking and biting her tongue - he can tell by the sounds she makes at the back of her throat - and refuses to look up, even when he tries to urge her chin up with his fingers. Her arms are crushed between them while his rest across her shoulders. He understands this position enough to know she is well and truly disturbed by something and that something is personal and has originated from someone else.

***

It takes a few attempts, but eventually Vicky allows Jon the space he needs to leave her for his classroom and collect his things. The principal has called Daddy, and he is allowing the both of them to check out of school for the day. It will only take a few more moments for Uncle Vic to pick them up.

She sits, in those minutes, with her hands balled into her lap and her feet tipping up from the floor, downcast and sniffling, the sleeve of her navy cardigan messed with snot. Knowing Jon, he's probably devised a list of the top ten reasons she might be depressed enough to bawl all over him; but she's not in the least embarrassed. Her brother is good at many things, but he is best at helping her center herself.

Soon enough, he's back and he doesn't hesitate to take the seat next to her and drape an arm about her shoulders. His hand cups her cheek and urges her to lean on him. She sighs and rests against his side without a word between them in the long exchange; and they remain like that until Uncle Vic arrives to take them home.

***

At home is very similar to school. Vicky sits in stillness and hurt while Jon holds on and tries to figure out what's wrong. Eventually, past lunch and approaching Mother's usual arrival time, Vicky speaks in a hoarse whisper, "Do I talk too much?"

She so rarely questions herself that he is startled enough to answer with honesty (not that he would have been dishonest otherwise, but he liked to think before he spoke in most instances), "Yes."

"Oh." She rubs her running nose against his shoulder and he has to fight with himself not to recoil. Vicky sounds entirely too defeated, and he is all to aware that he should probably apologize. "Is my hair ugly?"

"What?" Again, he's too surprised by the question to filter. "Who said your hair was ugly?" His tone is rough even to his ears. It angers him that anyone would insult his sister so, despite his tendency to tease her himself.

Vicky's mouth clamps shut as she stares at him with wide eyes. It's the expression she takes when she doesn't want to say something, so he prods a little more with a tug to the ends of a stray lock of her (very NOT ugly) hair and a tap to her forehead. "Tell me, Icky."

"Cole Samson."

Cole is a thirteen year old little prick who hails from old money and has been spoiled from the womb. He is also inexplicably judged by the female population of their school to be "hot" and Vicky has taken to him like a fish to water . . . a quirk Jon had pondered on for all of ten minutes when he first discovered her little crush. He has known it wouldn't last long due to Cole's lackluster personality and general jerkitude. Jon thinks the other boy smells like rotting fruit.

And though all he wants is to make the case against this idiot and assure her that she's being ridiculous (as usual), Jon knows that if he rubs this in her face, Vicky will never trust him again; so, he swallows the brotherly reflex and pats her hand. "What happened?"

Loudly, she blows her nose on his shirt, "I asked him out."

He wants to smack his palm against his forehead in exasperation, but he's just a small measure preoccupied with the new mess on his otherwise clean shirt. "I didn't think you liked him that much." Gods, he HOPED she didn't like him that much. "You're too young to date anyway."

She must have ignored that last comment, as she clucks her tongue and turns away momentarily to dig a little scrap of paper out of her book bag. Handing it over with a slight tremor of hesitation, she settles herself back against him again, nuzzling his collar in a veiled attempt to wipe her still running nose on his uniform shirt.

"What's this?"

"His answer."

"You sure you want me to --"

"Read it."

Jon nods a little then rests his cheek against hers, unfolds the seemingly harmless slip of paper and reads.

***

Vicky doesn't look at anything in particular. The note is short and to the point so she doesn't quite know what to make out of Jon's senseless staring. He doesn't seem angry and he doesn't speak, which has her just a tiny bit nervous as Jon never holds back his honest opinion when it's solicited.

Suddenly, he places the offending note at his opposite side and pulls her up with him to standing. There's a tiny almost-smile wreathing his lips, and Vicky is completely mind-boggled. Jon never smiles when he's upset - not even deviously; but he's smiling now and takes her hand in his and begins to pull her toward the front door which just completely exasperates her even more. It's chaos out there with howling winds and pouring rain and dark, dark clouds that streak with lightning every five minutes. She hadn't really registered the darkness or the noise until now, and as she moves evermore hesitantly behind her brother toward outside she thinks they should have taken up Uncle Vic's offer to have him stay with them until mom and dad got home from work.

"Jonny?" Her voice is small and still somewhat gravel-textured. She almost sounds like Momma.

He doesn't say anything, just brings her with him onto the porch as he lets the door slam closed behind them. The porch swing is soaked and shining with rain water even as it jerks back and forth and side to side with the tearing wind.

"JONNY!?" She almost sounds shrill and that stops him in his tracks; but instead of apologizing or offering explanation, his hands tug her shoulders then push her down on the wet swing. Her mouth opens to protest and - for once - give him a piece of her mind; but he settles in next to her, lays an arm across her back and - inexplicably - begins to push off, swinging them despite the violent winds and the leaves and debris passing by or lodging in their hair.

Her skin is getting chilled but her side, where he rests, is warm. "Jonny? You're acting pretty strange."

"Coming from you, that's almost an insult." It is a characteristic retort so she relaxes a bit, watching that small smile grow just a tad longer. Silence stretches out between them despite the white noise of the creaking swing hinges, knocking branches, rustling leaves, and the wind roaring in their ears. She finds that the destructive music is calming in its own way - it muffles her thoughts and soothes her heartache in a way that is profound and unexpected; and soon enough, her own mouth breaks into a smile as small and tentative as her brother's usually is.

And as she tips her head this way and up to look at him, she is hit by the realization that he has positioned them so that his clean shoulder is nearest and ready should she need to use him as a kleenex again. "You're the best brother in the world, Jonny."

He tugs her hair again with a tiny, barely-there chuckle and sighs, "I know." And then, "Samson's not worthy of you."

She echos his sigh and leans against him, letting the wind tangle her hair and whip him in the face. "How do you know that?"

"He thinks you talk too much."

"But you said I do."

"You DO; but I'm your brother. I'm the only one allowed to think and SAY it."

"Oh." She grins a little, biting back an amused giggle.

"And he thinks your hair is ugly and that you laugh too loud . . . among other things. What a putz."

This time she does giggle and nudge his shoulder with her own, curling her legs up onto the seat and threading her arm through his, getting comfortable. "You called him a putz!"

"He is."

They lapse into silence again, but this time her melancholy is all but a memory. She smiles against his shoulder and closes her eyes, not minding the booming thunder or the damp under her or the crisp bite of the chilling air. Jonny presses his cheek to hers again, and she feels his breath and wonders at how he can seem so distant sometimes then be like this.

"One day, little sister, you will meet a guy who sees everything you are and loves you even if you do talk too much and your hair is unusual and you laugh too loud . . . among other things. Like Mother, Father, and I."

It is the very first time Jonny has ever said he loves her in words, and though normally she might squeal and glomp him, she just grins up at him and kisses his cheek. "Best brother in the UNIVERSE."

Jonny rolls his eyes but she knows it's not directed at her when a new voice interjects, "How about some kisses for your favorite uncle!"

Normally, Vicky would have squealed (again!) and glomped Uncle Roy reflexively, but she wants to savor this rare closeness with her brother so she simply laughs - loudly, as is her habit - and gives a little wave. "Sorry, kisses are reserved for siblings only today!"

A snort explodes into her ear, and she back-smacks Jonny in his stomach. His usual deadpan expression is back full-force as he levels a direct look towards their "favorite" uncle. "Why are YOU here? I assured Father, Mother, and Uncle Vic I would handle this."

Uncle Roy is fairly bouncing on his toes, and Vicky thinks she knows why. "What can you do? You're only - what? - Seven?"

She wants so badly to laugh outright, tears spring into her eyes; because she can verily HEAR what Jonny is about to say.

It only gets more difficult to retain her composure when she notices Jonny's grin. "Ten. I thought you had a well enough grasp of elementary math to figure that out. Apparently, I have grossly overestimated your intelligence."

"Why you little - "

"VICSTER!" Uncle Gar hops up the drive, and she is suddenly glomped herself though she never releases Jonny's arm.

"GAR-MAN!" They laugh as he tickles her with his green, green hands and cheesy smile. Jonny just sits and watches and waits patiently to have his arm back.

"What are you people doing here?" Jonny never was one to let a question go unanswered.

Uncle Gar urges the siblings to shove over so that he can take the space on Vicky's other side. "Can't your coolest relatives just drop by for a visit?"

"You live three hundred miles away, Uncle Garfield." Vicky snickers softly, cuddling into her brother now that Uncle Gar has forfeited the tickling match. "And Uncle Roy only visits when he thinks Momma will be home alone."

Uncle Roy shakes his head with feigned horror, "No I don' --" then points a finger, "How do you KNOW that?"

Vicky blinks and is ready to answer when Jonny squeezes her hand. _I've got this one. _"Mother told Father." He clucks his tongue and suddenly his face is transformed into an expression of faux pity. "Which reminds me, you might want to steer clear of Father for awhile. He was . . . upset."

"That's putting it mildly." The voice is wry and so beloved, Vicky cannot contain herself as she lets go of her brother, fairly leaps off the swing and runs through the rain to jump into her father's waiting arms. "How are you feeling, Princess?" He speaks into her hair as he lifts her up and her chin rests upon his shoulder, her arms splayed around his neck and back. It is then she peaks through her lashes and the dancing strands of her hair to see that their aunts Star, Karen, and Nina are there along with uncles Paul and Vic, their cousins Silas and Junior , Great Uncle Alfred and . . . Grand-Pappy?!

***

This was ridiculous, Jon thought as he saw Grand-father exit his stretch limo to take Vicky from their father. "This is ridiculous."

"Aw, don't worry, little dude. We were just concerned. She's never had a meltdown like that before." Uncle Gar puts a hand on Jon's shoulder and shakes him gently. "So, wanna tell me what was eating our princess?"

"No."

"Stingy."

"Loyal."

Uncle Roy - who is currently lounging on the swing next to his (favorite) nephew with his feet kicked up onto a nearby potted plant, snorted.

Jon smirks, giving the ginger haired man a devious side-long glance. "That means 'faithful to a person, idea, etc. . . . But you don't know what 'faithful' means either, do you?."

Uncle Gar transforms into a hyena, laughing until he chokes while Uncle Roy splutters incoherently at Jon's cheek. It is a common dichotomy, one that Jon takes a small measure of comfort in as he knows it will never change; but this gathering isn't about him and he somewhat misses his sister's attention.

"ONII-CHAN!" Speak of the devil, she fairly flies into his lap and hugs him about the shoulders with more force than the still-howling wind, and as he is just about to order her to remove herself from his person, he receives a mouthful of her hair for his efforts.

"Ugh," he spits out the offending hair.

"Eeeewww. Now I have your spit in my hair!" Vicky's nose crinkles and her tongue is sticking out. Jon just gives her his patented deadpan look and retorts,

"I have your snot on my shirt. Consider us even."

She giggles and hugs him again, and he is suddenly intensely glad he was able to cheer her. His world isn't quite right when Vicky isn't smiling.

"Aaaawww, look a them, guys." This from Roy who takes great pleasure in ruffling Jon's hair and drawing the crowd closer, closing in, with his words.

"Aren't they just the cutest little boogers you ever saw?" This from Uncle Gar who takes even greater pleasure in making goo-goo faces and tickling Vicky under her chin. She's encouraging when she giggles. Jon elbows her in the side and she stops just long enough to flash a grin at him that has nothing to do with his actions and everything to do with a newcomer.

A small, pale hand pushes through and yanks Vicky away and into royal purple clad arms. "Yes, they are." Mother speaks with a subdued sort of annoyance before looking around calmly and announcing. "Thank you all for coming and showing such deep concern for my daughter; but it is getting late and I am not feeding all of you."

The collective sigh of relief is palpable even in this stormy weather and Jon finds himself fighting a smirk. Mother's cooking has only gotten worse with time and practice, something that scares him and Vicky in the best of times and tickles Father regardless. He often says Mother's lack of skill in the kitchen reminds him of her humanity and gives him hope that someday he will deserve her.

Aunt Nina pushes through and squeezes Jon first, smacking her lips against his cheek as is her usual custom, then embraces Mother and Vicky simultaneously saying, "Good thing Paul and I brought enough bar-b-que to feed a small army!"

Jon's eyes seek and find Mother's as they give each other a long-suffering look and Vicky jumps around, all smiles and laughing noise. His gaze follows his sister as she rushes down the porch steps and begins herding their family into the house like some sort of yipping terrier; and he thinks that he prefers this Vicky from the one this morning.

At least she isn't soiling his shirt with her tears and nasal mucus anymore.

***

It is well past bedtime when the house is finally empty of visitors and their parents are finally free to clean up the mess left behind. Vicky's body is humming with energy and love; but she knows she will have to sleep soon if she is to be in any shape to attend school tomorrow.

She spies Jonny in his heinously ugly striped pajamas, going about his usual before-bed routine, but what grabs her interest is Mother's voice telling her Father to "drop it." Unable to resist, she moves to a place more suited to eavesdropping, just behind the dividing wall between the kitchen and hall.

"I can't drop it. My daughter is in pain." Daddy is so funny sometimes. It doesn't hurt anymore. Her family's love has seen to a swift healing; and she understands now what Jonny meant. Cole is a putz.

Momma's voice is steady but hinting towards annoyance, which is strange. Momma never gets annoyed. Not really. "She's not in pain, Richard. Jonathon took care of it."

Behind the wall, Vicky nods jauntily in agreement as Father answeres, "And he did a good job of cheering her up; but what about tomorrow?"

"What about tomorrow?"

"Something obviously happened at school to instigate that reaction. What if she runs into the same problem?"

"I can assure you that when she runs into the 'problem,' she won't bat an eye. He's too young and stupid to be worthy of her right now. Like most boys."

And that was a mistake. Vicky's mouth shaped into a silent "ooooh".

"That was a mistake." The voice is soft in her ear and she jumps, cracking her head lightly on the wall. Jonny cushions the noise with a well-placed hand but they still get ready to run in case their parents notice.

"BOY?!" Daddy's yelp is almost as funny as his assumption that she's still hurting; and she can just picture Momma, calm and cool as always, placidly turning her attention to the dishes piled high in the sink while Daddy runs a hand through his hair and begins to pace.

"Of course, it's a boy. What did you think it was?"

"A bully or something like that! Vicky is too young to be thinking about boys!"

Vicky turns to her brother with a questioning look. Jonny merely cocks an eyebrow as if to say, "I told you so."

Momma's giggle is a surprise, the sound of kissing even more so. "You're adorable when you're clueless."

Daddy, apparently, doesn't care that Momma's "good vibe radar" is full to overflowing as he continues pacing, the rustle of his shirt collar being torn open, a quiet sort of violence to their young ears. "She's only nine years old!"

"May I remind you that I was thirteen and you were fourteen when we started living - ALONE - together, without adult supervision."

"But nothing HAPPENED back then."

"My point. She's only nine. It's just a crush. Boys are stupid. This too shall pass."

Jonathon smirks at Vicky and she nearly bursts into loud giggles. Both their hands find her mouth to keep the noise contained.

"I seem to recall that I was a boy once."

"You most certainly are."

"Was." Daddy's voice is laced with sweet laughter and Vicky peeks around the corner to see Daddy embrace Momma from behind.

"Are. And Jonathon will take care of the rest."

"Who is this kid anyway?"

"Our son."

Jonny shakes with laughter against her at that one. It is so very rare when Momma intentionally makes a joke. This time they both peer around the corner to take in their mother's impish expression, even if it is aimed at the dishwater.

"I meant the little punk who broke my baby girl's heart."

"I told you to drop it. He's a baby, himself; it's Victoria's business, and Jonathon will handle it."

"Victoria is too young to have 'business' or secrets or whatever the kids are calling it these days."

"You are blowing this out of proportion. Vicky is her own person. She is allowed to have secrets from us as long as they are not harmful to herself or anyone else." There is a pause as Momma pulls the plug to allow the sink to drain. "And allow me to reiterate, Jonathon will handle it."

Vicky beams at her brother for a moment; because she understands what Momma is trying - unsuccessfully - to hint at. Of all the people in the world who would defend Vicky's honor in a heartbeat, only Jonny would tailor the punishment to the crime and do it in such a subtle way that no one would be the wiser until it is too late.

Her brother is extremely talented. She is relieved that he tends to use his power for good instead of evil; and she trusts him to be fair rather than boorish or harsh as her father and uncles and cousins would be.

"Jon, huh? I think I might have to go and give him some . . . suggestions."

"Absolutely not. This is a _child_, Richard. He shall be dealt with by his peers. You are hereby FORBIDDEN to mention this incident ever again. In my presence or not."

Daddy splutters for a few moments while Vicky and Jonny tiptoe down the hall and into their mutual bedroom where Jonny tucks his sister in before getting into bed himself. It is an unspoken promise and a loaded glance that this shall be their secret; but more than that, it is a memory full of affection, loyalty, and love.

"I love you, Jonny." Vicky whispers once the lights are out, and though she doesn't expect it, she feels her heart expand near to bursting when she hears his answering murmur,

"Love you too, Icky."

**Author's Note: **It has been one of the most satisfying roles in my life, being an older sibling and I have to say that my brother and I are very much like Vicky and Jon in a lot of ways only I'm much more like Jon in temperament and my brother - used to be - a lot like Vicky. To this day, before my brother goes to anyone else, he comes to me if he has a problem or needs advice.

I'm not sure what the next Brush Stroke will be about even though I have a list of ready ideas. The two contending at the moment is something featuring the Maulers (what? you thought I'd forget?) or a day with Uncle Gar. ^_^


End file.
